


Temperament

by Nuinzilien



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: (emotional) hurt/ comfort, 3-some - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 18:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2035731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuinzilien/pseuds/Nuinzilien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even old elves can mis-step.   When lines are crossed, can all be forgiven?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Temperament

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Angelstar3999](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelstar3999/gifts).



> Written for Angelstar3999, who requested Glorfindel/ Melpomaen/ Elrond, h/c training and fluff.
> 
> I played a bit fast and loose with the "h/c" bit, but I hope you still enjoy!
> 
> Smut at the end - fair warning, they got carried away with me!
> 
> Huge thank you for my last-minute beta/ savior Zhie!

"You want me to what?”

Glorfindel smiled at the frankly adorable expression of ‘are you insane’ the young advisor wore. “Train with me. Learn to use a sword.”

“Why?” Melpomaen stood on his tip toes, resting his chin on Glorfindel’s chest and smiling up at him sweetly. “Is that not what I have you for? To be my protector? You are so very good at it, after all.”

Both elves ignored their Lord’s snort from across the room: One because it did nothing to further his cause, and the other because why would anyone argue? Despite how he had met his first end (which had NOTHING to do with his swordsmanship, thank you), Glorfindel was, without a doubt, the most skilled sword fighter in Imladris. Though, even he had to admit that Elrond could best him on occasion. (To be fair, it had been the dead of winter and an unexpected ice patch had spelled his doom. The mighty golden warrior might have felt a bit miffed by such an end, but the spoiling he’d gotten that night by their Lord, who was if nothing else a healer, was worth a little embarrassment and tenderness to the rump. And the next morning they had BOTH found sitting a challenge.)

Glorfindel bent his head to kiss Melpomaen’s nose. “Be that as it may, your wiles will not work on me, elfling. You need to learn to use a sword, if only to defend yourself until I can come to your rescue.”

Melpomaen pouted. “But I have not the temperament for it. My father has always said so.”

Elrond slipped up behind him, wrapping his arms around his young advisor's waist. “Indeed, precious elf, he was quite right. You do not have the temperament for a drawn out battle. But you do not need it for what he is asking of you.” He moved the long fall of rich chestnut hair aside, leaning in to kiss up his neck. “Give in, little beauty, this is not an argument you will win. Especially since I agree with him. You need to learn how to keep yourself alive until help can reach you. We cannot lead if we must worry about you being caught without protection. Please do this. If not because your Lord wills it, then because your lovers beg it.”

Mel sighed. “Well…if you are going to put it that way…I suppose I will have to do it. But consider yourselves warned.”

Glorfindel wrapped his arms around both of them, nuzzling into his hair. “Oh, we do, we do.”

**

Two weeks later…

Glorfindel flopped back into his favorite chaise with an exhausted groan. “Blessed Valar, Elrond, I do not understand it at all. I explain the mechanics of each position I teach him. He understands it. He can reproduce it when I am doing it along with him. I have even seen him practicing on his own, and he does seem to enjoy it. But when it comes down to putting it all together, he just…cannot see where the one must lead into the other! Elladan tried to spar with him, and I tell you, it is a good thing you had twins, because had Elrohir not been there to block, your line would have ended this day!”

Elrond began to rub at his shoulders, subtly sinking his awareness into the knotted muscles and coaxing them to ease. “So the disconnect is improvisation? Knowing which position will work best for the situation?”

His golden haired lover shook his head. “We have not even gotten that far yet. I have stayed strictly to the scripted progression. A to B. The same motions he could do perfectly when I was standing right beside him completely fall out of his head when he tries to spar.” He sighed. “I fear for him, Elrond, I truly do. If we are attacked, he will be vulnerable. I am at a loss.”

Elrond moved the thick fall of gold aside and kissed Glorfindel’s neck. “Then we keep trying different methods. At some point it will begin to make sense for him. And until then, we pray that we are not attacked.”

**

Elsewhere in the hidden valley, the elf in question sat beside a fountain and tried to regain his calm. Oh, how he wished he had dug his heels in and refused to train with a sword. He could have been sitting in a corner of the Hall of Fire listening to the minstrels rehearse, or in the healing wing re-labeling poultices and tonics (bless him, Elrond was a brilliant healer, but a drunken chicken in the mud could write more legibly). Instead he was swinging around a practice sword, putting everyone around him in danger.

He had been surprised at how easy it had been to slip back into the habits he’d learned as an elfling. The forms had come back to him slowly, but once he’d begun moving through the stances, the hours he’d spent practicing at his Father’s side had settled over him like a warm cloak, lending grace and confidence to his movement. Enough even to impress Glorfindel, whose standards were notoriously high.

Seeing his surprise and pleasure had been a nice incentive to keep practicing long after the other members of his group had retired to their evening’s entertainments. Going through the movements over and over, passing through stance after stance that it seemed his muscles had never truly forgotten. 

But then, forms were never his problem. They appealed to the meticulous and exacting nature that made him so perfect for the Scribing profession. If only forms and stances were all that mattered. But of course, all of the smooth, well-rehearsed forms that made Glorfindel smile meant nothing if they couldn’t be put to practical use. That was the point of it all…and the point where everything went wrong.

He looked up as footsteps stopped beside him. “Good evening.”

“Is it?” Erestor asked, settling himself on the bench. “I do not believe you. In fact, I have not seen you looking this wretched since Arwen spilled ink on that manuscript you were copying. That was a shame, too. You were doing an excellent job. Truly exquisite.”

Melpomaen turned and gave him a sour look. “You are not helping.”

Erestor shrugged. “I prefer to think differently. So why ARE you sitting here like a depressing little rain cloud?”

“I nearly made Elladan into an elleth today.”

Erestor snorted. “You would not be the first to wish it, but rogue that he is, I find it hard to believe that even HE would flirt with his Father’s lover.”

“He would not dare. He simply made the mistake of sparring with me today.”

“Ahhhh,” said the advisor, as if that explained everything. And perhaps it had. “You hate sword-play. Why in Manwe’s name did you agree to train?”

Melpomaen sighed. “I was outnumbered. When pulling rank did not work, they pulled the ‘but we are just worried about you and need to know you are safe’ ploy.”

Erestor winced in sympathy. “Oh, dirty pool.”

“Aye, it was. Especially when it would make me sound cruel and churlish to refuse. So here I am, flailing a sword around like a dolphin on land and more dangerous to anyone around me than any enemy would be.”

“And nearly castrating the Lord’s heir.”

If looks could kill, Erestor would be on a one-way trip to the Halls of Waiting. “And that. But…to be honest, I do not have the temperament for swordplay. I told them such.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because in order to be effective at something other than forms, one has to want to cause harm. Even to protect, and therein lies my problem. I do not actually *want* to harm anyone. So in a craft in which even training can lead to life-long injury, I do not belong.”

“Life-long injury?” Erestor asked, skeptically. “Do you not think that is over-stating things a bit?”

“Not in the least.” With that, Melpomaen stood and walked away, leaving a puzzled Advisor in his wake.

**

Two months after a messenger left the hidden valley on a mission for Elrond’s Chief Advisor, a slender male rode up the path. 

Erestor hurried out to meet him. “Welcome. You are Aenon?”

“Aye, and you must be Master Erestor.” He dismounted, handing the reins to a waiting stablehand.

“I am indeed. Welcome to Imladris. If you will follow me, I can show you to your rooms.”

Aenon fell into step beside him, looking around. “Not that I do not appreciate the opportunity to visit with my son, but why am I here? Every time I have offered to visit before, Maen has insisted that I am trying to ‘check up’ on him and has all but forbade me to come here.”

“Ah, well…” Erestor hemmed. “It will be a pleasant surprise when he finds out then.”

“A surprise? You mean you have not told….him…is that MY son out there?” He peered out at the practice fields, shielding his eyes from the sun. “That IS him…why is my son practicing with a sword? I never thought I would see that again…”

“Again?” Elrond asked, approaching them. “So Melpomaen has had combat training before?”

Aenon straightened. “Lord Elrond.” He placed his hand over his heart and bowed. “It is an honor to finally meet you. My son has told me a great deal about you in his letters.”

Elrond inclined his head in return. “Good things, hopefully.”

“Only the most glowing of praise, I assure you. He loves you very much.”

Elrond smiled. “The feeling is completely mutual.” At a gestured from him, they continued on.

Aenon watched Erestor head down a different hallway, then turned his attention back to Elrond. “My lord, Master Erestor implied that Melpomaen does not know I am here. If not by his wish, why was I summoned?”

Elrond escorted him into a sitting room. “Make yourself comfortable. Would you care for wine?”

“Aye, that would be lovely.” He waited for the Elf Lord to return with wine and sit across from him. “So why am I here?” he asked again.

“Curiosity, for the most part.” Elrond sat back. “Though we have tried to ask many times, your son has never been very forthcoming about his growing.”

“Like the fact that he can use a sword.”

“Aye, like that. In the past when we encouraged him to train with Glorfindel and learn to defend himself, he was very resistant, always saying that he did not have the temperament for it.”

“Completely true.” Aenon looked up as Glorfindel strode in and seated himself beside Elrond. “Lord Glorfindel. It is an honor.”

The elf lord shook his head. “The honor is entirely mine.” He made himself comfortable, stealing a sip from Elrond’s wine. “Do not let me interrupt. You were saying something about temperament.”

“Aye. Or lack thereof. To be honest, given what happened last time, I was shocked to see him on the practice field today.”

“So he HAS trained with a sword before.” Glorfindel nodded to himself, as if it had confirmed something he already suspected. “Did he always have difficulty when it came to sparring?”

Aenon sighed. “Not in the beginning…what you need to know first is that Melpomaen grew up watching me train. Sometimes even with his mother, who was certainly no slouch at swordplay. So naturally, he wished to learn as well. And he was good with a blade. Brilliant, really. He took to learning the various stances easily, and enjoyed sparring. But – and here is where temperament comes in – he had trouble coming down. You are warriors. You know as well as I that once the battle is over, then it is over. Time to return to normal activities, congratulate those who survived and mourn those who did not. But not my son. For hours after sparring, he was high strung, nervous and ready to jump back into the fray. So we started guiding him away from sword play and turned his attention toward the more scholarly arts. And he seemed to enjoy them both equally.” He took a drink of wine.

“So what made him turn from swordsmanship altogether?” asked Elrond.

“Well…as I said, Melpomaen could be very intense while sparring, particularly against one boy a year or so his elder. They were rivals, so to speak, each striving to be the best and prove themselves better than the other. As young boys are wont to do. When they sparred together, each gave as good as he received, and more often than not ended in a draw.” He downed the rest of his wine. “I am still not entirely sure what happened beforehand, but but on one such occasion their sparring became particularly vicious. They were not out for blood, but each of them definitely wished to be the one to win the match. After time was called and the match declared a draw, they should have stopped, but neither of them listened. They swung at each other with what seemed like all of their strength. Their swords met…and shattered.”

“Shattered?” Glorfindel repeated, surprised.

“Aye, shattered. I am not sure how sparring is done in Imladris, but in our village, young warriors in training use wooden practice swords with dulled tips. We had never had difficulty in the past, and while there were a fair number of bumps and bruises over the years, that was the worst that could happen. Or so we thought. When the swords shattered, slivers of wood went everywhere. Melpomaen was uninjured for the most part, only a few splinters that were easily removed. His opponent, however, was not quite as lucky. He lived, but despite the best efforts of our healers, they were unable to save his left eye.”

“That explains his ‘life-long injury’ comment to Erestor,” Glorfindel said quietly.

“I can still see the expression on Maen’s face. He was…heartbroken, for lack of a better term. I truly do not think he realized that people could be hurt by swordplay…that causing injury and incapacitating someone, even in defense, is the whole point. His mother and I tried to talk to him about it, tried to make him realize that it was a terrible accident and that no one was at fault, but all he could see was that he caused another person irreparable harm. After that, it was months before he could even see my sword without being ill and having terrible nightmares. Asking him to pick it back up and return to training was out of the question.”

“And that is why he does so well at the forms, but freezes up and seems to forget everything when it comes time to apply what he knows.” 

“That is ancient history, Father. Over and done with years ago.” Melpomaen breezed in and sat beside him, pulling his father into a tight hug. “Mother always said you could gossip worse than any old hobbit matron!”

Aenon crushed him, chuckling. “Aye, that she did, ‘Maen, that she did. I am so happy to see you!”

“And I you. But why are you here? WHEN did you get here?”

“Only a couple of hours ago at most. And why do I need a reason to come visit my only son? Just because that son does not want me to meet his lovers…”

The younger elf’s eyes rolled. “You KNOW that is not why…”

“Aye aye, I know why. You do not want me checking up on you, as if that is the entirety of my life, hm? Self-centered elfling.”

“I am NOT an elfling,” Melpomaen whined

“Aye, you are always going to be my elfling.”

“Father!”

**

Over the next several months, it became very apparent that not all was well with the Lord of the Valley and his companions. Elrond spent much of his time brooding in his office, Glorfindel’s temper was viciously short on the practice fields (when he was present at all, which was mercifully rare), and more than once, Melpomaen had been seen sleeping in a library chair or seated beside his favorite fountain.

The entire Homely House seemed to feel the effects of their estrangement. The musicians played for empty halls, servants quietly hurried to and fro. Even the children seemed subdued, preferring to keep to their family homes rather than run giggling through the Valley. The air was tense. Waiting.

After an evening of pointless dithering, Elrond finally decided to beard the dragon in its den. He headed down to the gardens, sat on the bench beside Melpomaen’s fountain, and waited.

And waited.

Finally, when he was ready to call his hunt a bust, he spotted his quarry rounding the corner and stood, waiting to be seen.

After stopping to enjoy the fragrance of a rose bush, the young Advisor straightened, looked over, and stilled. “I did not realize the bench was already occupied. I won’t disturb you any longer.” He turned to head back down the path.

“Beloved…please stay.”

Melpomaen turned. “Why should I?” He scowled. “Oh, right…you prefer to drag my father here and ask HIM. Well, he should be just now reaching home, so I suspect you’ll have to go to him this time. Do give him my love.” He spun on his heel.

“Precious…Beloved…” For once the great Lord Elrond Half-elven fumbled for words. “Dammit, Melpomaen, WAIT!”

“Why?” he snapped, turning back. “What could you possibly have to say to me right now?”

“I am sorry,” came the quiet reply. “We should not have contacted him without your knowledge.”

“No, you should not have! You should have just ASKED me. Instead, you went behind my back and contacted my FATHER, like I am some ELFLING you are giving a mid-school term report on! I am a grown elf, Elrond. If you wish to know something, you ask ME.”

Elrond nodded. “I know, we were wrong to go over your head like that…but dearest, we DID try to ask you. Granted, not about this particular topic, but you are so secretive about your youth. Every time we have asked to hear about your growing, what you were like as an elfling, what your parents were like, your friends, hobbies…you have always changed the subject and said it did not matter.”

His lover sighed. “So why did you not respect my privacy? Obviously it was something I did not want to talk about. Did it not occur to you that there may be certain parts of my youth that I would rather not think about? That I just may wish to put behind me and forget?”

“Like -“

“Like my mother’s choice to sail and the sparring you just HAD to ask about. Elrond, I blinded that boy. He forgave me, but he could never again be what he could have been. I carry that weight on my soul.”

“But you do not have to carry it alone, Melpomaen. We could help you shoulder that burden if you would allow it.”

“But it is MY burden to bear alone if I choose. You had no right to pry into my past when I clearly did not want you to know. You did not respect my wishes, and THAT is what hurts most. You did not respect ME.”

Elrond’s shoulders drooped. “How do I make this right, then? What would you have us do to show that we truly do respect you?”

Melpomaen sighed. “I need time. Does this mean I do not love you? Not at all. I miss both of you more dearly than I can say. But I am still angry and I need time to sort out my feelings and move on.”

“Alright, I can respect that.” Elrond said quietly. “Take however much time you need. Just know that we are waiting and will welcome you with open arms when you are ready.”

His young lover finally cracked a faint smile. “I know. I never doubted that.” He stepped closer, leaned in, and kissed Elrond’s forehead. “You make it very difficult to stay angry with you when you are being so reasonable, my Lord.” He turned and headed down the path toward the House.

Elrond sighed. Time to tell Glorfindel he had not been quite as successful as he had hoped.

**

True to their word, Elrond and Glorfindel gave Melpomaen the time he asked for, greeting him warmly when their paths crossed and reminding him that he was still loved, but not pushing any further. The House gradually settled into a new normal and much of the tension lifted from the Valley.

Weeks after their confrontation, Melpomaen returned to the chambers he had so long shared with them, slipping into his place between them in bed quietly. They, of course, welcomed him with the promised open arms, settling in to curl around him when he shook his head and pushed away from Glorfindel’s attempted kiss. “Not yet. Soon, but…not yet.”

That night resulted in the best sleep any of them had had in months.

The two elf lords took his return to their bed as permission to begin expressing the affection they had withheld for so long. Their greetings were warmer, they frequently took the opportunity to stroke his hair as they spoke or hold his hand during performances in the Hall of Fire. Rogue that he is, Glorfindel began to tease him with gentle touches or a whispered retelling of a particularly lurid dream that had him grinning, blushing, and trying desperately to hide the bulge in his pants. He took to wearing long, billowy robes all the time, never knowing when his wretch of a lover was going to strike again. Because really, was it necessary to lick his ear just to tell a story?

It was Elrond whom he kissed first. Dear Elrond, who had so patiently kept his hands, lips, and wicked stories to himself. While Glorfindel had set himself to seduce Melpomaen’s body and remind him of just how much pleasure could be had in their bed, Elrond chose a quieter path, often walking through the gardens with him, holding hands and reciting the epic love poetry he knew Melpomaen loved. They sat on his bench, legs touching from knee to hip, and it just felt…right.

He leaned in, kissing the surprised elf lord softly.

Elrond blinked slowly, his brain clearly taking a moment to catch up. He pulled back. “Aye?”

Melpomaen smiled. “Aye.” He ducked in for another.

Soft and gentle quickly turned to heavy and heated as desire ignited in their blood. Melpomaen slid onto Elrond’s lap, straddling his hips and grinding down on the clothed thickness he remembered rubbing so nicely against his rear this morning. Elrond had woken and pulled away with an apology, of course, sweet elf that he was. The younger elf had been tempted to call him back to finish things properly, but they’d both had busy days ahead of them.

But now, Melpomaen intended to thoroughly take advantage of their quiet little retreat. He ground his hips, hands wandering under thick robes to reacquaint himself with his lover’s much-adored body.

Well aware of the very public space that anyone could pass by and hear them, Elrond muffled his soft groans against even softer lips, his own hands cupping first cloth, then slipping beneath to cup warm flesh. The sweet gasp he received lit a fire in his belly. He was a patient elf, but dammit, he had NEEDS!

Popping the clasp of his pants in his haste, Imladris’ lord, took both members in hand and stroked with brutal precision.

“Elrond!” Melpomaen gasped out, shuddering at the sharp nips to his neck.

“Softly, beautiful elf,” Elrond warned, capturing soft lips and swallowing his cries as he stroked them both to a satisfying – if messy – end.

After they righted themselves (including a slightly panicked search of the area for Elrond’s missing clasp), the two elves slowly headed back to the House, fingers entwined. Just before leaving the garden, Elrond leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Next time it will not be my hand,” he promised. Melpomaen’s cheeks burned for the rest of the night.

**

His reunion with Glorfindel took a bit longer. Not because he needed more time, but because a small, sadistic part of him enjoyed watching the golden warrior get himself worked up, particularly when he knew Elrond had definitely shared the details of their garden assignation with him.

After a bit more torture, Melpomaen began to feel sorry for him. The poor elf was likely dying from a case of blue balls. That morning he took special care with his grooming, cleansing himself inside and out and brushing his hair until it shined. He chose his least favorite robes to wear. With what he had in mind, they wouldn’t be wearable after today anyway.

He went through his day distracted, excitement and anticipation keeping him half-hard. When Erestor finally snapped and dismissed him with an order to ‘get whatever it is out of your system, for Valar’s sake!’, Melpomaen grabbed a few documents for Glorfindel to review – a flimsy excuse, to be sure, but he was not one to turn down an opportunity – and headed down to the captain’s office near the barracks.

When he stepped inside, Glorfindel quickly dismissed his aide, locking the door behind him. “Well, well, pretty elf. What brings you?”

The younger elf stepped close. “Papers for you to sign. Requisition forms, transfers, leave requests and the like.”

“I see,” Glorfindel’s nostril flared, eyes growing lazy.

Melpomaen flushed. He knew better than to try playing this game with someone like Glorfindel, who once admitted he could scent a person’s arousal if he knew them well enough. He licked his lips nervously.

“Hm…you look lovely in those robes, sweetness. Such a pity I am going to destroy them.” Glorfindel leaned in, pinning him against the wall.

“Is that…is that so?” he asked, breathless.

“Oh aye, I am sorry to say. Utterly.” The blond pressed against him from thigh to chest, thrusting suggestively. “I know what you two did in the garden, and I must admit, I am a little hurt.”

Melpomaen panted. “Why is that?” As if he didn’t know.

“All that work I put into reminding you of why you love me, and he is the one who gets to touch you first.” Glorfindel purred in his ear, flicking his tongue up the shell to stroke the sharp tip.

The dark-haired elf moaned. “O-oh. Well…I reward patience.”

“Patience is entirely over-rated. And so are clothes.” With that, Glorfindel kissed him, the intensity of his desire slamming into the smaller elf with the overwhelming force of a tidal wave, sweeping him along and leaving him gasping.

Between one breath and the next, he was stripped, the tattered remains of his robes pooled around his feet. He arched under the warrior’s rough touch, reaching to pull Glorfindel’s trousers open and palm the generous thickness.

Glorfindel thrust with a groan. “Oil?” he panted out.

Melpomaen wrapped his legs around his hips. “Already taken care of. Now put this where it belongs.”

“Bossy elf,” he growled, placing himself at his lover’s entrance and trying to press in slowly. But Melpomaen was having none of it, pressing down to take him deep. “Finally!”

Glorfindel could only groan his agreement

**

Much later, a sore and sated Melpomaen lay curled between his lovers, content. “Missed you,” he mumbled sleepily.

Elrond kissed the back of his neck. “Missed you too, sweet elf.

Glorfindel yawned and nuzzled his hair. "Welcome home."


End file.
